Friends Help Friends
by chappysmom
Summary: After Mycroft had released the news that John was no longer rich, things were good for a while. With the world believing he had lost his fortune to ransom Sherlock, things were simpler. Before long, though, the extra 'rent' money was piling up at the bank, and John didn't know what to do with it. A series of one-shots that are part of the Mistaken Identities series.
1. Wheel in a Wheel in a Wheel

A WHEEL IN A WHEEL IN A WHEEL

After Mycroft had released the news that John was no longer rich, things were good for a while. With the world believing he had given up his fortune to ransom Sherlock, things were simpler. He wasn't being pestered by people begging for money, the demands from charities had died down, and with the exception of him having an excess of (now secret) spending money, things had gone back to normal.

Before long, though, the extra 'rent' money was piling up at the bank, and John didn't know what to do with it. The fund Ian had set up for him left him a surplus of thousands of pounds each month, but nobody but Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft (and hence the British Government) knew about it. That made disposing of the extra challenging these days. He could only make so many anonymous donations, could only hand out so many tips to Sherlock's homeless network. It turns out paying income tax on money you didn't have the fun of spending was just depressing. Sometimes, though, circumstances worked in his favor.

He was reading in his chair at 221B when he heard the street door open.

"I don't care what you say, Sherlock, this is your fault." Greg's voice rose up the stairwell as the two men climbed toward 221B and John put down his book with a wince. What had Sherlock done now, he wondered as he headed for the kitchen to start the kettle.

The door opened and Sherlock shrugged off his coat with a casual, "It's not like you were using it at the time, Lestrade, and thank you so much for enquiring as to my health."

"Your _health_?" Greg's voice lifted in outrage.

"You did hit me with your car, Inspector. Isn't it only polite to confirm that I am uninjured?"

"First, I did _not_ hit you with the car. _You_ ran OVER my car. My safely parked, completely stationary car. While driving a bloody _tractor_! I now own a car pancake, thanks to you. And where the hell did you learn to drive a tractor, anyway?"

Sherlock huffed. "I did have a childhood, Inspector."

Teabags in hand, John blinked thoughtfully, glancing at the mugs he'd already laid out. With a nod, he turned and picked up the scotch and poured some into a glass. "Do you want tea with your scotch, Greg?" he called.

"Ta," he said with a weary nod.

John leaned out of the kitchen. Greg was standing erect near the door while Sherlock casually sprawled in his chair, as if he hadn't a care in the world. "So … do I want to know?" he asked finally.

Greg was just about to answer when his phone rang. He glanced at the ID and then hurried to answer it. "Lestrade. Yes, that's right. A bloody tractor." He glared at Sherlock for a moment, and then his eyes widened. "What do you mean, you can't fix it? What am I supposed to do without a car? Yes, of course I have insurance, but … well, thanks for nothing, then, yeah?"

He looked like he wanted to throw the phone across the room, but instead satisfied himself by giving Sherlock another dirty look as he took the glass John silently handed him before returning to the kitchen. "Apparently, my car is beyond repair, thanks to you, Sherlock."

"I don't know what you're so unhappy about," Sherlock said with a shrug. "You lost it in the line of duty. I'm sure the Yard will replace it."

"The Yard … That was _my_ car, you idiot! My own, personal, actually paid-for CAR! Do you have any idea how hard that's going to be to replace?"

Sherlock looked completely unconcerned and John frankly wondered how Greg had refrained from punching him in that careless face. "You said you had insurance, didn't you? So there you go. It might be a minor inconvenience for a day or two, but I don't see the problem. You caught the criminal, after all."

John sighed. Sherlock's cavalier relationship with money made it hard for him to understand the sheer effort most people had to make to be able to buy things like cars. He appreciated that Sherlock had grown up with Money-with-a-capital-M and that his budgeting instinct had accordingly been stunted as a child. It wasn't his fault that he was simply used to money being there when he needed it, whether he worked for it or not. It was the fact that Sherlock never tried to understand the way money worked for normal people that made him want to strangle him.

John carried out the tea and handed out mugs before sitting down himself. "So … something about a tractor?" he asked with a hint of sympathy.

Greg nodded. "Yes. This …" he seemed to search for the right words, then finally just settled for "…Consulting detective apparently observed the criminal making his getaway, but somehow neglected to _observe_ my BMW until he drove a tractor across the top of it. Lengthwise." He looked solemnly into his glass. "A bloody _tractor_. It was like one of those American telly shows where they squash things with massive trucks, except it was my CAR."

He almost looked like he was going to cry, and John couldn't blame him. He chose not to drive himself, but he knew how much Greg loved his BMW. He had saved for years and John sometimes thought the only thing that prevented him from falling apart when he and his wife split was that that Greg got the car in the divorce settlement.

And now Sherlock had wrecked it? Carelessly, with nary a acknowledgment or an apology in sight? John tried to make up for it with his own sympathetic murmurs, but knew it wasn't enough.

#

Later, after Greg had gone on his morose, car-less way, John said to Sherlock. "You know, he really loved that car."

"Are we on that again, John? It's just a car."

"Like your violin is just a violin?" Ha, that got your attention, John thought as he saw Sherlock's head come up. "Most of the time, yes, a car is just a car, but sometimes, it's more. People express themselves in all sorts of ways, Sherlock, and it's not like Greg has a whole lot of outlets. He works impossible hours. He lost his wife. He rents a shabby little flat while trying to meet the mortgage payments on a house he doesn't even live in anymore. He puts up with you on a daily basis. All he had that made him feel good about himself was that car."

"That's ridiculous, John. It's just a mode of transport. He'll get a new one and will be 'happy' again," Sherlock said with that snide inflection that only he could insert into the most innocuous words.

"He could, Sherlock, if he had anything like the disposable income he had when he bought that car three years ago." John got up and went to the desk, opening his laptop. "Not everyone has a trust fund, you know."

A careless sniff from the couch. "Might I remind you then, John, that I'm not the only one in this room with a trust fund these days?"

"Maybe not, but I'm not the one who destroyed the man's car without even an apology." He turned to his computer and started to open his blog, but another thought occurred. Bending to the keyboard, he began to type.

#

Half an hour later, he stood up. "Get your coat," he told Sherlock. "We're going out."

"What? We are?" A wary expression crossed Sherlock's face. "If you think I'm going to apologize…"

"Don't be silly. I know you far too well for that," John told him. "But we're still going out. Come on. You can deduce it on the way."

#

Several hours later, John signed the last piece of paper. "And this will be delivered tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, sir. Just as you requested. It will be our pleasure." The salesman was practically drooling on the paperwork in his eagerness.

"Right. Good, then. It's been a pleasure." John stood and shook his hand. "Coming, Sherlock?"

As they left, Sherlock said, "I don't see why you needed me to come along for this exercise in tedium, John."

John just pursed his lips. "Of course you don't, Sherlock. But now it's your turn. I did my part in cleaning up your mess, now you've got to make sure all the rest of the pieces are in place—even if you need to call your brother to make it happen. This _will_ be done for tomorrow morning. You owe him, and you're simply not going to fail him on this. You didn't even have to spend any money."

He didn't even try to hide his smile at the landed fish expression on Sherlock's face. John had already alerted Mycroft to the need, and assumed that Mycroft had probably taken care of the necessary paperwork already, but that wasn't the point. Sherlock was going to call and ask for his help. That, along with having to sit while John dealt with all the dealership's paperwork, would be punishment enough.

#

The next morning went even better than John had hoped. He and Sherlock were at the Scotland Yard parking lot before Greg arrived with Sally. They had the perfect view of Greg's parking spot—the spot that should have been empty, but which instead had a brand new, deep blue BMW in it.

They saw the anger on Greg's face when he saw a car in his spot, followed by confusion when he got closer. There was a bow on the steering wheel and a large cardboard gift tag tucked under the windshield wiper.

"To DI Lestrade, in exchange for past services rendered. (This is NOT an apology.)"

Stunned, Greg opened the door and clumsily picked up the envelope from the front seat and looked at the paperwork, fumbling when the keys tumbled into his hand. John couldn't help grinning as he saw him look at the papers. Everything was taken care of—the registration, the insurance—all of it arranged in record time, thanks to Mycroft. Nor was there any record of his or Sherlock's name anywhere, not that that would matter.

Greg already thought Sherlock had money to burn, and he had a long acquaintance with the detective's high-handed behavior. He would never suspect John's involvement as anything other than a goad to Sherlock's (not quite nonexistent) conscience.

John tried not to laugh as he watched Greg slide into the driver's seat, face completely stunned, sliding his hands over the steering wheel in disbelief. He would probably try to refuse the gift—not that he had a choice—but you could see he was already in love.

Sherlock's mobile beeped. Sally's head turned their way at the sound as Sherlock snorted. "He wants to know if I stole it," he said, stepping out of their hiding place just as she stormed over.

"Is this your idea of a joke?" she demanded, hair curling tighter in the heat of her anger. "He deserves better than that from you, with all the nonsense he puts up with, and after you wrecked his car."

Sherlock simply raised an elegant eyebrow as he brushed past her, striding toward the car. "I don't know what you're talking about, Sally. Ah, Lestrade," he said as he came abreast of the car. "Excellent. I see you've solved your transportation problems, and so quickly, too, when you were so worried."

John stifled a laugh as Greg turned and put one foot on the ground, ready to climb out of the car. "Sherlock, I don't know what you've done, but I can't accept this."

Sherlock just reached for the door and shut it, with Greg just getting his foot inside in time. "I don't know what you're talking about, Inspector. I certainly hope you don't think I bought you this car—where would I find the money?"

"You expect me to believe that?" Greg asked. "Who else would buy me a car after you wrecked… Christ, this isn't from your brother is, it?"

"Heaven forbid, Inspector," Sherlock told him as he walked around to the passenger side and got in. "If that were true, I wouldn't be able to bring myself to touch the vehicle. Coming, John?"

John slid into the backseat, not even trying to hide his grin as Greg said, "Coming? Where are we going?"

"A case, Inspector. It's some miles away, so it's good you've replaced your car so efficiently. We'd best get going -we could be driving for hours. I hope that won't be a problem?"

Greg sputtered for a moment, but somehow he was inserting the ignition key at the same time. "Driving for hours?" he asked, a grin starting to spread over his face, "I think we can manage that." Easing the car into gear, he pulled out of his space, just missing Sally.

John leaned back in his seat and listened to Greg and Sherlock squabble over radio stations as Sherlock made up details to his non-existent case. He wasn't sure how Greg would feel when he learned that it was just an excuse to get him behind the wheel of his new car … but he had a feeling that, once he'd had the pleasure of letting the engine roar up the motorway to wherever Sherlock was taking them, Greg would have forgiven them.

Really, it was a beautiful day for a drive.

#

(_ NOTE: I'm working on the assumption that Scotland Yard has something like a parking lot or garage of some kind for its employees, and that a Detective Inspector would rate an assigned parking spot. This could be completely wrong, but—hey, it worked for the story, so I'm going with it._)


	2. Rent Control

RENT CONTROL

Telling Mrs. Hudson is the hardest-first, that John had inherited a fortune and then, well, how DO you tell your landlady you've lost it? (And do you even bother?)

* * *

Paying off the taxi, John and Sherlock entered the hallway of Baker Street. Sherlock automatically started up the stairs, but John paused, looking down the hallway. "Is she back yet, do you think? John asked.

Sherlock gave him a Look. "Of course she is, how can you not see that? Or smell it, at least, since she's obviously baking scones."

"Sherlock, I've been sick, remember? My sense of smell is not at its best right now. My temper's not ideal, either," he added as Sherlock opened his mouth. He walked down the hallway to tap on the door. "Mrs. Hudson? Are you there?"

It was just a few moments before she opened the door. "Oh, John, dear. You don't look well at all! Please, come in and have some tea and scones, just out of the oven. You, too, Sherlock." She seemed so delighted at the chance to have them in her flat for a change, John couldn't help but smile as he let her chivvy him in the door.

Before long, they were seated with tea and fresh scones (even Sherlock took one), and John tried to think how to broach his topic. "So … have you seen the news today, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked finally.

"You mean that dreadful kidnapping business? My sister and I couldn't believe it when we saw the report the other day. One of the Littleston family kidnapping Sherlock and your sister! I really just couldn't believe it. Do you know why? Or, well, you probably do, don't you, Sherlock? What did you do this time?" she asked with one of her cheery little laughs.

Mouth full of scone, Sherlock nodded to John, letting him tell the story. John gave a mental shrug—of all the times for Sherlock to decide to be tactful! "It was actually about me, Mrs. Hudson. It'll be in the news tomorrow." He took a sip of his tea and then figuratively bit the bullet and said, "It turns out that, well … my father wasn't Harry Watson after all."

"What? No!" Mrs. Hudson had that gossip-lover's look of being both horrified at the news and delighted at the juicy tidbit. "You poor dear. Did you just find out?"

"Yes, when Andy kidnapped Sherlock. He had just found out the secret, and wanted to, to…"

"To ensure that John wouldn't be after his inheritance," Sherlock said to John's relief. "Unfortunately for him, things went badly—because he was an idiot—and he ended up in jail instead. Not only that, but his father was so incensed, he's rewritten his will. Turns out, John's coming into some money, very soon."

Mrs. Hudson's eyes were wide. "Ian Littleston? The billionaire? Your father? Does this mean … what does this mean, John?"

John was touched at the hint of concern in her face. "I'm not going anywhere, Mrs. Hudson. Not unless you want me to. It just means that you no longer have to give us a break on the rent."

Her face shone with relief. "Are you rich now, John?"

"No," he said firmly. "I told Ian I didn't want to inherit his fortune—what would I do with that kind of money? Instead, he's putting it into two new charities. Or, most of it."

Sherlock smirked. "Yes, Ian was quite insistent about wanting to cover John's rent and he set up a nice little fund to cover it each month. Which is excellent, because I'll have more money to put toward my experiments now."

"Oh, really?" John asked. "What makes you think I'm covering your half the rent? Just so you can find more ways to stink up the flat?"

"Isn't that what Ian wants, John? To pay the rent?" Sherlock asked innocently. "Isn't there some sort of rule about a dying wish?"

John pointed his butter knife at him sternly. "He wants to cover _my_ rent, Sherlock. Mine. He said nothing about your half. Talk to Mycroft."

"But, John!" Sherlock protested with a yelp. "You can't … and after I let myself be kidnapped for you? And nursed you through your illness?"

John kept his face straight with an effort, and made a point not to look at Mrs. Hudson. For all his observational skills, Sherlock never did see it coming, when John opted to tease him. "I suppose that's up to Mrs. Hudson, then, what she chooses to charge you for _your_ rent. I, however, will be paying more—and happy to do it."

Now he looked at her beaming smile. "Oh, John, I'm so happy for you!"

John reached out for another scone and grinned. "It's just a way of spreading the wealth, after all."

Leaning back in his chair, he reflected that, right now, this minute, things were good. His health was returning, Sherlock was safe and acting his usual self. Mrs. Hudson was back from her sister's. The scones were delicious, the tea was hot. He knew it wouldn't last—it never did—but this moment? This was good.

#

**Months later**

The day the news broke, Mrs. Hudson called right away. John looked at the display on his phone and said to Sherlock, "Maybe we should have told her, instead of letting her find out from the papers."

He answered the phone and spent the next half hour reassuring her that yes, Sherlock was fine, and yes, he was unhurt, and yes, it was true about the ransom demand. He confirmed that the kidnapper had been caught, and that he had no regrets whatsoever about having paid the ransom.

It was when she expressed her outrage on his behalf, for losing his so-called fortune, that he became uncomfortable. He had no problem lying to the press and the general public, but this was Mrs. Hudson. Lying to her was like lying to his mother.

After he'd finally hung up, he looked at Sherlock. "I just couldn't tell her over the phone. But when she started telling me not to worry, that I could pay what I used to … I felt terrible."

"Why?" Sherlock asked. "It's not like you're going to go back to the old rate, so she's not going to be out of pocket. Why should you feel bad?"

"Because she doesn't know that yet, does she? She's being all kind and understanding, but there's no need. It's making me feel guilty."

Sherlock just shook his head and turned back to his paper. "I'll never understand you, John."

John snorted. "It's mutual, Sherlock."

#


	3. Negative Image

NEGATIVE IMAGE

Sally finds something surprising on a drugs bust.

* * *

It was a normal crime scene. Sherlock came bounding across the parking lot, complaining as usual, and within minutes, Sally had to turn away. He made it so impossible to focus on the job at hand. Shaking her head, she saw John carrying an expensive Nikon DSLR. She drifted over, eyebrows raised. "Nice camera, John. Is that the D90? I've been admiring that one ever since it came out."

He looked at her for a moment, and then glanced down at the camera. "Really? It's way too complicated for me. I don't know what Sherlock was thinking. A basic point-and-shoot is more my speed. Here, take a look"

To her surprise, he handed her the camera. She blinked a moment, and then raised it to look through the viewfinder. She expertly adjusted the aperture setting and slid the lens through its range of zoom settings. "A camera like this can do anything—it can be as simple as a point-and-shoot without you needing to do anything, or it can let you control everything. It's got one of the best sensors Nikon's ever had." She lowered it, relishing the feel of it in her hands. Sturdy, solid, but not so large and bulky it would be difficult to carry around.

"Thanks." She held it out to John, trying not to let the regret show on her face. "Maybe one day I can afford one of those. I'm still working with my D40, which is practically a dinosaur at this point."

"You like photography, then?" John asked, surprised.

"Oh yeah. Ever since school. I've got a bunch of film cameras back home, but nobody does film anymore, and it's getting harder to get it developed. It's not like I have a lab to develop my own. But transferring to digital gets pricey. I've been saving up."

John looked thoughtful as he fumbled with the dial, switching the camera back to AUTO. He glanced over at Sherlock and then back to Sally, then handed her the camera. "Here. Take it."

"What? Do you need me to show you how to use it, or something?"

He just smiled at her. "Are you kidding? We don't have that kind of time. I'm saying, take it. It's yours."

"But…" She had to have misunderstood. There's no way he was giving her this £800 camera. It wasn't possible. He didn't even like her. "I can't … what will the fr … Sherlock say?"

John shrugged. "He won't care, and believe me, I'd be much happier with something simpler that fits in my pocket so I don't feel like a ruddy tourist all the time. Seriously. It's like his Stradivarius—it deserves to belong to someone who can appreciate it."

She was completely stunned. She looked at him and glanced over at the freak, who was watching. She started to hand it back to John, not wanting_that_ confrontation, but he just shook his head at her and insisted. "Really. Take it. Have you got a bag you can use? I left mine at home."

Sally had never felt quite so speechless. She nodded. "You're _sure_? You don't even _like_ me."

He actually laughed. "So, start giving me reasons to! Honestly, keep the camera. It's just the kit lens, and I don't think there are even any pictures on the memory card. I'd rather use the camera on my phone." He gave her a firm nod, tucked his hands in his pockets to prevent her from handing it back, and walked away.

A few minutes later she saw him talking to Sherlock and saw them both look her way. Was Sherlock going to come tear his precious camera from her hands? Her fingers curled reflexively around the camera. But no, he just gave her a nod and turned back to berating Anderson.

She would never understand those two. Never.

#

Sally trudged up the stairs to 221B, all seventeen of them, and tried not to be appalled that she'd come so often that she actually knew that.

Really, it was the Freak's fault … no, Sherlock's fault, she corrected herself. She was trying to get out of that habit. Her opinion hadn't changed, but John, biased though he was, had been right about one thing—calling him that was unprofessional. And she was trying to be nice.

Of course, she'd be feeling more charitable if they weren't on another wild goose chase 'drugs bust' again. She didn't think the fr … that, is_Sherlock_ was ever going to get out of the habit of taking evidence away from the crime scenes. Apparently the concept of a controlled evidence chain was something he simply couldn't understand.

She had to admit that she felt badly for John, though. He covered when … Sherlock crossed a line, but she had never seen John cross one himself. He was just, for god knew what reason, fond of his flatmate even if, for the life of her, she couldn't figure out why. She could almost have seen it if John were gay because there was no question that Sherlock was easy on the eyes, but he wasn't. She'd thought for years that he had taken some kind of mental damage in the war, until Sherlock 'died.' It had been clear then that John loved him on some, weird, freakish level of bromance.

Sally was the first to admit that love didn't answer to logic.

She felt sorry for the landlady, though, as she let them upstairs. It couldn't be easy, having these two as tenants—especially now she was back to getting paid less in rent than before John lost all his money ransoming Sherlock. (Poor sod. If you're going to pay a fortune, you'd at least hope to get something worthwhile for your money.)

Not that John had seemed to get any real use out of his fortune, she thought, as she started rummaging through the things on the desk. He hadn't even bought … hold on. This was a new laptop. Well, good for him. At least he'd gotten something before all that money disappeared. He was devoted to that blog of his, and even she had to admit it was entertaining. She'd almost missed it during the years Sherlock had been gone.

She shifted a pile of papers and found another laptop—must be Sherlock's. Hmm. That was new, too. A gift from that creeper brother of his, probably. She slid open the desk drawers, trying to focus on the job at hand. She looked around the room and her eyes lit on the television. Had it always been so large? She didn't think Sherlock was a telly kind of bloke, though it was probably a welcome distraction for John of an evening.

Forehead crinkling, she looked around the room again. There was something different about it, but she couldn't put her finger on it. It was just as cluttered as ever. The furniture was the same as she remembered it … or was it? Hadn't that chair had a broken leg last time she was here?

She wandered over to the kitchen. Had they always had two fridges? (Remembering the eyeballs, she resolved NOT to look in either of them.) She didn't recall seeing a dishwasher last time she was here, either. The stove looked the way she remembered, but the pots were new. Hadn't she heard John complaining about Sherlock ruining one with some kind of experiment on human spleens just last week?

She scanned the flat again. It was curious how many little, expensive things they had that she didn't remember. John must have bought them all before Sherlock was kidnapped two months ago.

Except … Was that … ? It was. A Nikon D800 DSLR on the bookcase nearest John's usual chair. This model was only just out, she knew. She turned it on and flipped through the stored images. At first, she hurried through, and then her photographer's eye realized—they were good. Very good. Shots from inside the flat. Shots of London streets and architecture. Kids chasing pigeons in Trafalgar Square. Portraits of homeless people that made her feel she almost knew them. She had no idea Sherlock was so good at photography.

Then, she came across several images of the freak himself. Backlit and playing his violin by the window. His hands steepled in front of his face as he stared intently into the distance. An uncommonly caring look as he bent to talk to a child.

This was John's camera. Not Sherlock's.

But, hadn't he told her that he didn't know how to use one properly? Clearly that was not the case. There was no question that the person who had taken these images knew exactly what he was doing—which meant he had lied to her when he gave her the camera several months ago.

She looked around, and saw a camera bag tucked in the corner and glanced inside. As if the camera in her hands didn't cost enough, there was a small fortune worth of lenses and flashes in here.

She straightened and took another look around the flat, noting again all the new items. Come to think of it, the hallway and the stairs seemed less run-down than usual, too. The entire building had a fresh feeling. It had never been run down, exactly—the landlady was too responsible for that—but it had had the feel of any house maintained by an elderly woman with two rambunctious tenants. 'Lived in" would be the kindest description.

Now, though? There was that indefinable feel of a house that was being actively cared for. It wasn't any neater or cleaner than it had been, but the air was somehow fresher, the light brighter, as if money for its care was no object.

Yet, she knew John had given all that money for Sherlock's ransom, so how was this possible? She scanned the room again, suspicions flaring. Of course, they had caught the kidnapper … had she ever heard what had happened to the actual ransom? Her fingers clenched around the camera as her eyes rested on Sherlock's violin. John had said it was a Stradivarius? Weren't they the pinnacle of violins? The most expensive in the world?

Of course. The answer was obvious. Sherlock's creeper brother. He must have been so grateful to John for sacrificing his fortune to save Sherlock that he'd been giving gifts. It was the only explanation.

She glanced back at the camera, tempted to scroll through more of the photos, but already feeling like she'd intruded. She placed it back on the shelf where she'd found it, and got back to work.

##


	4. Sibling Rivalry

SIBLING RIVALRY

John has lunch with Harry to try to explain things.

Refers to events from "Calling in Favors" and "Don't Mess with the Watsons," and takes place shortly after Ian's death.

* * *

John gave Harry a quick kiss on the cheek and slid into his chair. "How's the new job?"

"Oh, Johnny, it's so good."

He looked up from the menu. "Really?"

"Oh, yes." She practically beamed. "I don't know how you did it, but this is the best job I've ever had. It's amazing."

"Well, that's, er, good then," he said, taken aback. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen her so enthusiastic about anything. When she had announced her marriage to Clara, maybe?

"Good?" She repeated. "It's better than good. Who on _earth_ do you know, baby brother? Because I could have searched a million years and still not found this job. You're a miracle worker."

He shook his head. "Don't be silly, Harry. I honestly had nothing to do with it, other than mentioning it to Sherlock's brother. Luckily, he felt as badly as I did that you were out of a job for no fault of your own. And, well, he always sympathizes with people who have to put up with Sherlock, and you were tied up in a room with him—that was bound to elicit his sympathy. But really, it's not a big deal, just drop it, okay?"

She looked like she wanted to protest, but he waved over the waitress and placed his order, trying to fight down his nerves while Harry spelled out what she wanted in excruciating detail. He felt guilty, though, when he saw how her smile had dimmed. "I'm sorry," he told her. "It's just been a long week, and I honestly don't know who Mycroft called for you. I'm just glad it worked out and you're happy."

Her smile lit again, and John drew a sigh of relief. Harry was always at the extreme ends of her emotions, and was so much easier to deal with when she was happy. This conversation was going to be hard enough.

He let her chatter on about her new job until the food came and he twirled his fork in his pasta, waiting for a break in the conversation. It wasn't long in coming.

"You're not eating," she said after a bit.

Trust his big sister to notice that, he thought. "Yeah, well, there's something I've got to tell you." He dropped the fork and reached for his water glass, well aware it was a delaying tactic. "You remember that envelope we found?"

"Behind the wall in the sitting room that you and Sherlock left in a shambles? The one that said Dad wasn't your dad? Yeah, I remember."

"Right. So you'll remember that my father was Ian Littleston."

A sharp nod. "Of course. I'm not stupid. And yes, I know he died yesterday. Why? Did he leave you anything?"

He didn't say anything, just sat and watched her eyes widen. "Did he?" She barely breathed the words.

He shook his head. "Not what you're thinking, sis. I'm not suddenly a millionaire, or anything. But yeah, something." He forced himself to take a bite of the pasta. "He basically cut Andy out of the will because of his actions towards you and Sherlock."

And Geoffrey, he thought, though he didn't say it aloud. "Then he took the bulk of his estate and created two, new charities—one for the environment in his other son's name, and one for wounded veterans, for me."

"Charities," she said bluntly. "Do you get any money from these charities?"

He looked up, a sharp look. "Of course not. That's what makes them a charity. No, what Ian did for me was set up a fund to cover my rent—much like the one that paid our mortgage all those years."

She sniffed. "It doesn't seem like much, after ignoring you all those years. Not when he obviously could afford to do more."

"Harry, I _asked_ him not to do more. What would I do with a million pounds? Believe me, it's better this way. The point, though, is that this news is about to come out—and it's going to be a mess."

"A mess?"

John just shook his head. "A nightmare, more like, which you'd think I'd be used to, but … Christ, this is going to be bad, Harry."

She took a mouthful of her lunch and then asked, "But why? It's not like you did anything wrong."

"Since when has that stopped the press? And, think about it. One of the richest men in England, whose son was just arrested for kidnapping, dies and instead of leaving his money to his family, leaves it to charity. And, oh yes, let's not forget, his long-lost son, John Watson. Yes, the same man who was involved with the whole Sherlock Holmes fraud-suicide-returned-from-death fiasco. They're going to go crazy."

He sat back in his chair. "Jesus, spelling it all out just makes it sound worse. And you're going to be involved this time, Harry, because you're the one Andy kidnapped. There's no way that the press is going to let any of this go any time soon, and you just ... need to be ready."

Her face had gone pale. "But, Johnny … my new job. How is this going to affect my new _job_?"

He leaned forward and put his hand on hers. "It won't. I promise. It's not like Mycroft didn't know all this was coming—he probably knew before anybody."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, picking at their food, and then Harry said, "Can you imagine how Maggie would have reacted? If she hadn't fired me, I mean, and I was still working there?"

"Considering how good her public relations skills ended up being?"

The papers had been having a field day with Harry's old boss the last few days, lambasting her for firing a kidnapping victim. That would have been a nightmare for anyone, but for a PR firm, it took on a whole new level of horror, since there was no way she could spin the story to her advantage—not least because she seemed too terrified to step out of her office. Of course it helped that Mycroft had intimidated her so that she wasn't bringing up Harry's drinking in the press, either.

He leaned forward and said, "Just wait until the press learns the Watsons are connected to the Littlestons … her nightmare is just beginning."

Harry's eyes were twinkling now and John relaxed, relieved. He so seldom had the chance to see the sister he grew up with. Since their parents died, she too often was bitter or angry (or drunk), making their visits a chore to be endured. But every now and again, they would find a way to connect to the times when their family was whole and their biggest problem was staying on their own side of the backseat.

"People should really remember—you don't mess with a Watson. We look like pushovers, but we're scrappy."

John laughed and nodded. "Hidden depths."


	5. Paying for Drinks

PAYING FOR DRINKS

Greg gets curious about John's finances and finally just ASKS.

* * *

"You're just trying to get out of your share of the drinks."

"I'm not stupid, John," Greg told him, wagging a finger in front of his nose. "And I've known the Holmes brothers longer than you have. This is just the kind of thing they'd do."

John laughed into his pint. "Don't think I don't appreciate a good sense of paranoia where Sherlock and his brother are concerned, but, really … why would I lie about losing my money? That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" Greg put his glass down and looked John straight in the eye. "Because it seems to me that the criminal element knowing about your inheritance didn't work out so well. I certainly wouldn't put it past Sherlock to want the beggars to stop pestering you—and considering Sherlock came into the crosshairs not once, but twice, because of it, Mycroft would definitely be on board."

He took another sip while John just smiled and shook his head. "Sherlock loved all those begging letters—you know that."

"Sure, but I also know how quickly he gets bored. And don't forget, I was there when Sherlock was kidnapped, John. I do know what Mycroft is capable of. I also remember that we caught the kidnappers—do you really think I'm so stupid that I don't think you got the ransom, too?"

John forced a laugh. "And you think I lied to the press—because that always goes so well—why, exactly?"

"To get them off your back. To get _everyone_ off your back." Greg took a sip of pint and leaned back in his seat. "I know you, too, John. You don't like being the center of attention, and you hated everyone thinking you were rich. You don't quite hide your light under a bushel, mate, but you are more than happy to have the spotlight pointing somewhere else—at Sherlock, usually."

John gave a small shrug. "I'm a modest fellow, Greg. I've never been a show-off."

"No, you're not. Which is why I think you'd be happier spreading your wealth around anonymously. Like, say, buying a friend a new car after your crazy flatmate squashed his?"

The corners of John's lips quirked. "I don't know what you're talking about."

There was a triumphant gleam in Greg's eyes. "Of course you don't. You probably don't make a habit of giving away expensive cameras to people you don't like, either, yeah? And don't think I haven't noticed the new gadgets at the flat, either. I told you, I'm not stupid."

John tilted his glass slightly in his direction. "No, you never have been."

They drank companionably for a few minutes and then John ordered another round.

"You do know you still need to pay taxes on it, even if people don't know about it," Greg said after a while.

John laughed. "His brother is an accountant for the government—on paper, at least. Do you really think he'd let me do anything less?"

Greg laughed. "No, I guess not, though how they expect to keep this a secret…"

"What secret? I'm a private citizen. Nobody needs to know what I've got in my bank account," John said. "Not that there's anything to see, of course."

"Of course. Which is why you're wearing new jeans."

John lifted his eyebrows. "I'm not going to ask why you noticed my jeans, Greg, but—what does that mean? Sherlock spilled acid on my old pair and I had to replace them. People buy new clothes all the time."

"Sure, sure they do," Greg agreed, "But that was the fourth pair I've seen in six months when before, I'd swear you wore the same jeans for years. Your shoes are only a few months old, too, and I've noticed a new variety in jumpers. I mention this because, up until you met Ian, you were a master at patching up the holes Sherlock put in your clothes, and I don't remember ever seeing you in anything new. But I'd almost swear your entire wardrobe has been replaced in the last few months. Months _after_ you lost all your money to those kidnappers."

"Again, I don't know how comfortable I am knowing you're memorizing my wardrobe, Greg."

"I'm just saying, John … I'm not blind. Neither are other people—no matter what Sherlock says."

"It's a good thing I have nothing to hide then," said John as he stood to fetch another round. "Though I'll just say this: don't think you're getting out of paying your share."

Greg lifted his pint. "Wouldn't think of it. I'd hate to break your cover."

And he grinned as John walked toward the bar, shaking his head.

#


	6. Accountable

ACCOUNTABLE

Asking Mycroft what on earth he should do with all the extra cash each month—since he's not supposed to have it, so far as the public knows, what is he supposed to do with it?

* * *

"Seriously, Mycroft, what am I going to do with all this money now? It was enough trouble before!" John threw the newspaper down next to the chair and stood, starting to pace. "I mean, at least when people knew I had money, it wasn't a surprise if I gave it away or bought something new, but now? It's just piling up at the bank and I don't know what to do with it without attracting attention."

"I believe this is what they refer to as a First World Problem, John," Mycroft said with a ghost of a smile.

"Yes, laugh, please," John told him with some acerbity. "I'm not meant to have this kind of money, Mycroft. Financial statements bore me. Remember how appalled you were when you found out I had shares in LSE that I paid no attention to? This is a hundred times worse."

"I believe I had recommended a good financial adviser—has he not been satisfactory?"

John just gave him a look—not quite a Holmesian-level, you're-an-idiot look, but close. "You know perfectly well I've no complaints. My money is very nicely organized, I'm paying taxes like a good citizen, and I know where all of it is at all times. Or, at least, when I bother to read my statements."

"So what's the problem?"

John tried to stifle a sigh. Mycroft had grown up with money, he reminded himself. Even geniuses need things spelled out from time to time. "What do I _do_ with it?"

Mycroft's forehead developed a faint crease, and John took a breath and tried to explain. "I've never had money before, Mycroft. Spending money, sure, enough to live on. But I've never been wealthy. When I needed to buy something big, I needed to save up—like almost everybody else. I usually had a buffer in my savings account because I don't really buy all that much, but still, not more than a few months' rent. This is completely new to me. I've got money piling up in the bank—thousands of pounds every month—and I don't know what to do with it. Do I just let it sit there? Do I give it away? Invest it? What?"

"Ah." Mycroft's face cleared. "It doesn't hurt anything for you to allow the money to, er, pile up in the bank, John. In that case, you have immediate access to it should you need it, but if it makes you uncomfortable, you can certainly invest it, if you like. I'm sure Stephen can give you good suggestions, there, as it is his job."

"Yes, but I …" John scrubbed at his face, trying to find the words.

"You are uncomfortable discussing money with him," Mycroft suggested softly. "You feel insecure because of what you see as the differences in your backgrounds. You say you trust him—and I assure you he is trustworthy—but a part of you worries nevertheless."

John gave a half-shrug, unable to deny the truth to that. Mycroft continued, "You're uncomfortable bringing this to me, as well, except that we have had enough interactions over the years so that it's more akin to discussing awkward subjects with a father or older brother than with a stranger—still uncomfortable, but with an underlying foundation of, shall we say, trust."

"Yes, well … that's about it, yes," John said, trying not to fidget. He'd rather face a serial killer with a machete than Mycroft over a desk. "Stephen is nice enough, and very capable, but…"

"Are you asking me for my help, John? Mine, personally?"

"Um, well … yeah, I guess I am. I didn't exactly inherit Ian's money-managing skills."

"At least you are wise enough to admit that," Mycroft said, fingers steepled in front of his face in an all-too-familiar pose. "I admit, it would be an interesting challenge to take a new, untrammeled 'pile' of money and see what could be done with it."

John was surprised to see his eyes light, and started to feel uncomfortable. The last thing he needed was _more_ money. He was starting to wish he'd just dumped all of it into a basic savings account and forgotten about it, but he already knew it was too late. He knew the signs—Mycroft was already mentally planning everything he wanted to do with John's money, and there was nothing John was going to be able to do to stop him.

"I know how busy you are, Mycroft," he said in an attempt to head this off. "I'm not asking you to take Stephen's place. I was just hoping you could give me a couple suggestions…"

"Don't be silly, John. I'm flattered that you would bring this to me," Mycroft told him, and John couldn't miss the enthusiasm on the man's face. He looked like someone had just given him a huge piece of cake covered in frosting, sprinkles, fudge sauce and whipped cream. There was no way John was going to be able to take control of this away from him.

But, wasn't that what he had wanted? To not have to worry about his money? It's not like he hadn't trusted Mycroft with his life, he already knew everything about John's life, and surely the British Government could be relied on to take care of his money?

"Well, that's settled, then," John finally said. He looked at the man across from him, noting the calculations spinning behind the eyes and the way his fingers were almost twitching to reach for his keyboard. "I imagine there are some kind of papers you need me to sign? And—you'll want a commission for this, won't you?"

Mycroft blinked, a surprised smile on his face. "How kind of you to offer. A small one, I promise you. You are practically family, after all, and I owe you for keeping Sherlock alive all these years." The smile widened into an actual _grin_ (John never thought he'd see the day) and he reached for the mouse next to his keyboard. "Now, what I think you should do is this…"

John stifled a sigh and reminded himself that he'd asked for this as he pulled out his phone to send a text to Sherlock. It was going to be a long night.


	7. You're Kidding, Right?

YOU'RE KIDDING, RIGHT?

Anderson hints for his own gift, and John takes great pleasure in NOT giving it to him.

* * *

They were standing at a crime scene, watching Sherlock flit around the room, examining the body and other clues visible only to him when Anderson said, "It's a damn shame."

"What?" asked John, his attention on Sherlock. "Oh, yes. It always is, isn't it?"

"Yes, a real shame. I don't know what I'll do without my iPod since it broke last week—not that it's any concern of yours, of course," he said with a hearty laugh.

John gave him a sideways look and suspected he had only just missed getting a slap on the back. What was with Anderson today? This hail-and-well-met kind of friendliness was as far from his usual behavior as … wait a minute.

He glanced down at the earbuds hanging out of his pocket and saw Sally standing near the door, not quite watching in that particular way that showed she was paying very close attention indeed. Keeping his eyes on Sherlock, John silently cursed. He knew giving her that camera was going to get him into trouble. If Anderson thought he was going to give him his iPod, he could just think again.

He'd managed to forgive Sally—more or less—for her part in Sherlock's Fall several years ago. He knew she had thought she was doing her job, even if she was doing it too enthusiastically after years of Sherlock constantly putting her down. He understood why she disliked Sherlock as a person, and totally understood her inability to keep up with his deductions. He would never forgive her for immediately leaping to Sherlock-is-a-criminal, but he could understand and forgive her animosity. And he could understand and forgive the need to at least examine the evidence that Moriarty had planted.

Anderson, though? He had far too eagerly jumped on the bash-Sherlock bandwagon that fateful night and helped escalate things from "we need to ask a few questions" to the under-arrest-escape-hostage-situation that had led to Sherlock being alone on the St. Barts roof with Moriarty.

Had the man ever shown the faintest inclination toward treating John as anything resembling a friend or colleague, he might be more willing to forgive him now, but he never had. Anderson had only ever whined at Sherlock and ignored John, and now he was hoping for a gift? Really, he had to be kidding.

In fact, John couldn't believe the nerve, and felt his blood pressure rising as he thought about it. Giving Sally the camera had been an act of impulse, not something he'd planned, and so far as she and Anderson knew, he was back to being broke again. Was he honestly expecting John to give him a gift? It would have been obnoxious enough back when John had been (publically) wealthy, but now? He couldn't think of an adjective strong enough.

He wasn't sure how much of this showed on his face, but there was no question that Sherlock read it all as he straightened and came over. "Oh dear," he said, stopping in his tracks and turning to look behind him.

"What is it?" John asked, as Anderson sniggered and said, "Did you contaminate my crime scene again?"

"No, I'm just … " Sherlock said, peering around, and then taking a step back. "Ah, that's better."

He reached forward and took John's arm, pulling him toward him. "Don't get too close, John. He's pulling down the IQ in a wider area than usual today."

"Now, look here," started Anderson, spluttering.

"It's the only possible explanation," Sherlock told him, his voice icy. "Any man who would believe that John would just hand over his iPod to an idiot who's never had a kind word for him even _before_ he gave up his inheritance is clearly working at sub-par levels of intelligence, even by your usual standards, Anderson."

John was working to keep a straight face as he watched Anderson realize how appallingly transparent he had been. The man glanced over to John, embarrassment fighting with the scorn on his face. "Of course. He's been so generous with his money lately, I'd forgotten that he gave it all up for _you_, though that's a poor bargain by any standard."

John felt his face freeze as his rage suddenly roared to life, but Sherlock's hand was still on his sleeve. "John is nothing if not generous," Sherlock told the other man, "Even to people who don't properly appreciate him—though there's a limit to how far even he can go."

Sherlock stepped forward, not quite looming over the other man, but crowding in his personal space. "Let's see. I gave up my life for him. He gave up his fortune for me. And, naturally, we've both risked our lives for the other many times. Lestrade has stuck his neck out for both of us more times than even I can count, and even Sgt. Donovan saved John's life once—that jewel thief, remember John? She's generally fairly competent as an officer, if abrasive. If they've recently received unexpected windfalls, I'm sure it's because they deserved them on some level that I, as a high-functioning sociopath, couldn't possibly understand. But you? What have you ever done for him, Anderson? Or for anybody, for that matter?"

John watched with barely hidden pleasure as Anderson struggled to find something, anything, to say. They had an audience, now, with Donovan frankly staring and Lestrade in the doorway, watching, ready to intercede if necessary.

John wasn't worried, though. He could see that Sherlock was in perfect control of himself, no matter how pleased he was to have an opportunity to put Anderson in his place. He couldn't help himself, though. "Now, Sherlock, you know that's not true. You're no more a sociopath than I am. Nobody who cared enough to jump off a building for his friends can possibly be a sociopath—not to mention allowing himself to be kidnapped to save his friend's life. Your social skills may not be ideal, but you are generous to a fault when it matters."

Sherlock caught his eye, inspecting his mood, and then nodded. "Thank you, John. It's nice to be appreciated and, of course, it's thanks to you that I've—what's the phrase?—grown as a person. Unlike Anderson, here, who has never shown a drop of compassion toward another person, living or dead, that I've ever seen. His only emotional setting seems to be a variation of whining disgruntlement, except for a certain level of obsequiousness when he thinks he can gain from it—like now."

He turned back to the shaking forensics officer. "No matter how you hint or grovel, John is not going to give you his iPod, Anderson. He's more generous than I, of course, but even he has limits on his charity. What was the old phrase? The 'worthy poor?' I hardly think you qualify."

Sherlock gave the man one last, raking glance and then paced toward the doorway, John at his heels, trying not to laugh. They paused for Sherlock to rattle off his deductions to Lestrade and then exited the building, leaving stark silence behind them as Anderson realized that he had just embarrassed himself in front of the entire squad.

"D'you enjoy that?" asked John as they left.

"Oh, yeah," said Sherlock with a gleam. "It's been ages."

John snickered. "That's true. I thought you were going to burst when you heard him hinting."

"I did, too. Even I underestimated the level of stupidity to which he would go."

"Well," said John, "You can say what you want about his intelligence, but you can't accuse him of not having any nerve—practically asking outright for me to hand over my iPod! But now, he'll be too nervous to even speak in our presence for weeks, so thanks for that."

Sherlock nodded and they walked in silence for a few minutes. "Do you really think I'm generous?"

"To a fault, Sherlock, and believe me, you've got many of them." John told him. "But I wouldn't change a thing."

* * *

(And this brings us to the end-so far as I know-for this little series of John's friends reactions. I suppose there COULD be another one-shot added at some point if the spirit moves me, but, this is pretty much it. There will be one more piece of this series, "FAMILY MATTERS" dealing with, well how John deals with his new-found family, the Littlestons.)


End file.
